


Looking for Trouble

by Dragonpie



Series: Reader Fics [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, Deep Throating, Hair Pulling, M/M, Male POV, Moral Ambiguity, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Reader Insert, Rough Oral Sex, Size Kink, Unreliable Narration, big dick dyn, face fucking, male reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24820855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonpie/pseuds/Dragonpie
Summary: You’ve always been quiet. Not shy, but well-behaved. Never calling attention to yourself. Never causing trouble – and if your mother knew how untrue that was she might have sent you to war rather than sending you away from it.A war-torn planet is no place for a sensible young man. She’d sent you away just over a year ago and you’ve been well-behaved ever since. Or as well-behaved as you can bring yourself to be.————————————Basically; a glorified blow job fic where YOU are in the drivers seat.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: Reader Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816252
Comments: 5
Kudos: 127





	Looking for Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mochaaaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mochaaaa/gifts).



> I wrote this mostly for a lovely friend of mine who I personally believe, deserves the entire world. I had initially planned to release this exclusively on tumblr but I was unaware of the drastic lack of representation male readers get, and so here we are!
> 
> REMINDER; this fic is special and I tried my best to screen for typos but shit does still happen so don’t be surprised.

You’ve always been quiet. Not shy, but well-behaved. Never calling attention to yourself. Never causing trouble – and if your mother knew how untrue that was she might have sent you to war rather than sending you away from it.

A war-torn planet is no place for a sensible young man. She’d sent you away just over a year ago and you’ve been well-behaved ever since. Or as well-behaved as you can bring yourself to be.

Your aunt is lovely, and the tiny bed and breakfast she runs is full of charm. She keeps you in line without realizing it; no trouble to be had waiting tables and tending bar on a backwater planet with less traffic than the average moon.

Every day you see the same faces; hold the same conversations, over and over. You wouldn’t call it dull, but it’s nothing like the excitement your heart craves.

The days bleed into each other. This planet has three moons and they’re all on their new cycle – it’s been as least a month since the last new visitor you’d seen, and months on this planet are _long._

You’ve become so used to the bed and breakfast – so used to it’s quirks and charms. You don’t raise your head from cleaning glasses. Not when the door opens, letting in a soft spring chill, or when the multiple bells tied to the handle jingle as a new patron enters. You think one day when you leave this planet behind, the sound of bells might pull you back for a moment but until then you’ve learned to turn out the gentle chime – a tune automatically falling out in a soft hum whenever you hear the sound.

“Be with you in a minute,” you call out. The business has nothing but regulars, and they’ve never been unhappy waiting. Just a few more dishes to wash – your aunt will probably get to them first.

You hear her barrelling down the stairs already. She’s been in a pleasant mood all day; not a customer in sight and the inn is free of reservations. She doesn’t like strangers, your aunt – had a hard enough time getting used to _you_ hanging around – but she enjoys time spent with her regulars.

“Well hello there –” he voice echoes through the building, loud enough to reach you in the kitchen. She doesn’t finish her sentence; a quiet crash and stumble indicating her hurry in your direction.

You don’t look up – you’ve been taught to keep your head down and to mind your business, but she’s behind you suddenly; pacing through the kitchen like a nervous duck.

“Everything alright?” you ask just for the chaos of it – can picture her throwing her arms up in the air as she huffs and freezes in place.

“No everything is _not alright!”_ and the implied quotations marks are just as dramatic.

You already know what’s wrong, and you dry your hands off ready to deal with it.

“New customer?” you ask, sparing our aunt a pitying grin.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life – and I know _everyone_ on this planet, I _do!_ They must’ve come here for _you!”_

As always her tone is accusatory, her eyes narrowed to a glare. You have to placate her again. She’s old and scared and wants none of the trouble you come with.

“Relax, I’m a refugee, not a fugitive,” you remind her. The words make no difference in her mind and you take a moment to peak out the kitchen door. You can barely make out the figure now seated at a corner table; the poor lighting in the dining area obstructs any finer details. You _do_ make out the shape of something small – a _child_ seated there too; fiddling with the table arrangement and making a mess of dead flowers.

You think of reminding your aunt about other planets and other people who exist on them. you think the less she remembers, the better.

“You stay in here; finish up with the cleaning. I’ll see what’s going on.”

She won’t stay in the kitchen long. She’s losing her mind little by little. Just another detail in your daily life. If you’re lucky she’ll forget to be afraid.

She can be friendly on good days.

“Welcome,” you put on your biggest smile as you approach. You look towards the child first – you’ve never seen one of his kind before, but he smiles back, waving with a small hand while the other is lodged firmly in his mouth. Then there’s the man he came with, and you’ve heard of his type before from your paranoid mother. A culture of fierce warriors – natural born hunters. A special breed of trouble you’ve been warned about many times in passing.

“We don’t get many of our kind around here,” you say it without thinking. Even with his face obstructed, you can feel his eyes piercing through you – a familiar judgement. It’s thrilling. Exactly the reason you need to be kept in line. “Travellers, I mean.”

The Mandalorian nods. His head shifts slightly to survey the otherwise empty dining area – drifting over towards the kitchen where your aunt had retreated. You think he’s looking for something in particularly. An escape route. An area hidden away from the rest of the building. When he turns his attention back, you can feel it against your skin in a way that sends warning bells blaring through your mind.

You offer yet another smile, lips parting ever so slightly. You hang off his every word as he speaks – no matter how brief – absolutely lost in the sound of his voice.

“We’re just passing through.”

“Well you’ve picked a great place to stop,” you lean across the table ever so slightly – close enough you can see your own eyes reflected through his helmet. “The tables here are the perfect height.”

You see him shift slightly in his seat and this is exactly what you’re not supposed to be doing. Attention has always come to you so naturally – your mother was beside herself with all the trouble that followed you; would have locked you away if the civil war hadn’t gripped your planet so suddenly. She would hate to see you now; shamelessly inviting the stares of strange men and welcoming the danger of new attention.

You try to find it in yourself to care, but can barely think over the excitement swirling in your stomach. You don’t know what you want yet but you’d recognise that look anywhere – and maybe it’s been a while since you’ve had a chance to blow off steam so you’ll take what you can get.

There are a few moments of tense quiet. Your offer is silent – it’s ingrained just in the way you stand; the way you bat your eyes and part your lips. It’s never been difficult to get what you need.

Your aunt rushes over to the table and you think maybe she’d forgotten to be afraid. Her eyes shift towards the child as she’d laying down a bowl of yesterday’s soup.

“The kitchen isn’t open just yet – we don’t often get customers this early.” She says it like an apology, rather than a lie. Still her expression is soft and she doesn’t look up at the Mandalorian when she says, _“Still,_ little ones have to eat, I suppose.”

You look over her should at the Mandalorian, and your mouth is still quirked in a cheeky grin when you say; “Don’t worry about the kitchen. I think he’s looking for something a little _off menu.”_

And maybe your aunt doesn’t hear you – she’s certainly distracted by the opening door as a few of her valued regulars migrate in from the cold. She puts a hand loosely on your shoulder and says, “Yes well, you do what you can to keep our new guest happy.”

You’re not surprised when she scuttles off to speak with her old friends, leaving you on your own once more. You don’t even wait until she’s out of earshot before lowering your voice to say,

“I think I have what you’re looking for in the back.”

Again, the Mandalorian shifts in his seat. His attention strays towards the child, now distracted by the food laid out in front of him. He looks over towards your aunt, chatting enthusiastically with a table of newcomers; the atmosphere of the room having picked up into something livelier.

There’s an implied guilt in the way he moves out of his seat and you smile your best smile – neither sultry nor reassuring.

You’re not exactly desperate for it but there’s a certain pressure in your stomach that ignites at the thought of doing something _bad_. This same feeling burns through you as you lead the Mandalorian through the kitchen and into the walk-in pantry – the only place downstairs with any privacy. It’s your first time bringing a man back here and you press him against the bare shelves just like you’ve always fantasized about during long days of baking, or taking stock for the twelfth time in a month. You can feel he’s already growing hard, and you can’t help the smile that takes over your face.

“I’m not _that_ cute, am I?” you ask; voice bleeding the kind of sarcasm that could easily get you into trouble. You allow your hands to slip from where they rest against broad shoulders, down his armoured chest and towards his growing erection. Your stomach flips at the feel of it, half-hard and barely able to fit between your fingers. “It must’ve been a while, huh?”

He doesn’t give you his name. doesn’t ask for yours. You don’t mind a single bit; it’s things like that which only get in your way.

You can feel his eyes on you as you sink to your knees – an air of guilty hesitance, as he looks towards the door. You think idly that it must be difficult with the child around. For you it’s something that doesn’t bear any thought.

“Relax, my aunt will take care of him,” you say; voice nothing more than a breath of air. Now at eye level with the Mandalorian’s concealed length, you can’t stop your stomach from growling.

You really should learn to lower your standards. But none of the local men look like they’d be trouble.

“Don’t take too long,” he says, voice low and gravelly, “I haven’t got a lot of time.”

When you look up, his head is turned away still, and a nasty little part of you hates not being at the centre of attention. Especially at a time like this.

You reach out with deft fingers and hastily undo his pants. He doesn’t help a single bit – having accepted this for what it is. When you manage to free his hard cock, the sheer size of it gives you pause. Just the thought of what you could do with a little more time makes your stomach _ache._ As it is, you can’t manage to wrap your hand completely around the base. You give a few careful strokes to start of with, testing the weight of it in your hand – absolutely _adoring_ the feel of it, and the stifled groans that escape the Mandalorian’s throat.

You’re eager to get your mouth around him, but you hold off; a question n the back of your mind. You keep up a rhythm of slow strokes, thumb pressing against the underside with every upwards drag of your hand – free hand resting on the Mandalorian’s hip to keep him steady as he tries to thrust into your careful grasp. This is an entirely new kind of chaos, and you keep it up until a frustrated groan leaves his throat – a gloved hand coming to rest in your hair but freezing in place.

There’s a certain hesitance there that makes you smile. With widened eyes and slightly parted lips you speak in a tone that is more air than actual voice.

“You don’t have to be careful with me.” You feel his fingers twitch against your hair and just about close your eyes – thrilled by just the promise of what’s to come. “If I didn’t like it rough, I wouldn’t be on my knees with a stranger.”

You open your mouth, not necessarily to say anything more, but as an invitation that is eagerly accepted. You allow yourself to be brought forward by a tight grip in your hair; lops stretching around the thick head of the Mandalorian’s cock.

You can’t help the moan that escapes you when the taste hits your tongue. The taste of skin and sweat, and evidence of the Mandalorian’s building pleasure, leaking out where your tongue presses against the tip.

You don’t have to be pushed before you’re swallowing down as much as you can. More than you can; you quickly find yourself gagging and pulling back. The feeling shudders through you, and the fingers in your hair loosen just slightly before you’re diving back in for another try. This time you hollow out your cheeks, taking in a deep breath through your nose before trying your best to relax your throat. You only get about halfway down, and the Mandalorian curses above you – fingers so tight in your hair it becomes painful, while his hips rock forward ever so slightly, desperately trying to hold back from physically choking you.

The thought makes you moan – a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach drives you to try again. You pull back with a wet gasp, saliva coating your plump lips.

He doesn’t let you pull back all the way before pulling forward again to fuck into your willing mouth. You can at least catch your breath like this, and the thought of being used this way ignites something just beneath your skin.

You let your eyes fall shut and give in to the feeling – keeping your mouth open and relaxed to accommodate increasingly rough thrusts.

You hear noises above you – words in a language you don’t speak, and the implication only drives you to try harder. So maybe it’s been a while and in amongst the feelings of mischief and excitement there’s an underlying desire to be _good._ You can feel it in the way he pulls your hair when you swallow him down – hear it in the sound he makes when you choke and gag; throat refusing to open up despite your best efforts. You close your eyes against the stinging tears – a wave of nausea set aside in favour of focussing on your own arousal.

You haven’t been this turned on since you left your home planet – and if you think about it too hard, you really do hate it here and so you force yourself not to think about it at all.

You don’t struggle when he holds your head in place; slowly feeding you what you haven’t yet managed to take. Your lungs are screaming in your chest, and your throat protests every inch of the way but your skin is on fire and for several long, dizzying moments you think you might cum completely untouched.

You feel it when you finally start to give way and the pressure of his cockhead breaching your throat is an absolute revelation. You feel so full like this and when your hand jumps to your neck, you’re _sure_ you can feel the shape of him through your skin.

_“Fuck.”_

His voice is a low groan and he’s barely even moving at this point; holding your head in place where your mouth is stretched around the thick base.

You can’t breathe like this – you’re sure he knows this; must be able to feel your throat constricting as you struggle and slowly suffocate. A delirious part of you thinks there are worse ways to die – and _stars_ if you don’t choke then surely your body won’t survive the finishing blow.

You can’t help it at this point; too impatient to wait for anything more. You jam the feel of your hand against your own hard length – the thought of cumming in your pants like a lustful teenager drives you crazy. _Just think of the mess you’ll make._

You can feel it building in your stomach – a fire burning far out of your control. It’s a tingle in your fingertips, when he finally lets you go, and you suck in grateful gasps of air. The hardwood floor beneath your knees and the promise of bruises later. The taste of precum that lingers in the back of your throat – the solid weight of the Mandalorian’s thumb against your spit-slick bottom lip as he strokes himself in front of you.

 _“Open up –”_ his words are practically a growl and at this point you can tell he’s figured you out. You let out a whimper just for show and open your mouth as wide as it can go; stretching out your tongue without being told. He lets out a groan of approval and presses two fingers flat against your tongue before using the same hand to dig back into your hair – tugging your head back to get a good angle.

It’s all too much; you’ve barely gotten a hand on yourself and yet you’re right at the edge. If you never leave this planet, you’ll be thinking of this moment for the rest of your life – and you just about lose your mind when he groans the words;

_“Good boy.”_

Your body shakes unexpectedly; hips stuttering in small, aborted thrusts – grinding desperately against your hand where it’s pressed ineffectively against your hard cock. Your stomach feels as though it has collapsed; releasing the fire into your bloodstream and igniting your entire bod in an unbearable heat. It burns along your skin and steals the breath from your lungs – driving sharp cries and moans from your throat.

Your reaction sets him off and you startle at the first taste of cum against your tongue. You’re still coming down from our high and you welcome the grounding feeling – the sharp, bitter taste; and the heady groans mixed with foreign curses that fall from the Mandalorian’s mouth.

You keep your tongue out until he’s done, and like a _good boy_ you make a show of swallowing. The action has yet another curse falling from above, and the Mandalorian slumps heavy against the bare shelves.

You wish you had the time to show him how good you could really be. There’s a hunger boiling over in your core – something that might never be satisfied, and that’s half the reason you’re here.

But your aunt is losing her mind little by little. You can’t trust her for too long – not even around a child.

You look up with wide fluttery eyes and fix the Mandalorian with a sweet smile.

_“Thanks for passing by.”_

**Author's Note:**

> After writing and posting this fic I can easily see myself writing more fics from the same readers perspective. If you have anything to say about that/anything you would like to see with this reader perspective feel free to reach out to me on tumblr @softdramahoe


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